


Starting Line Burn Out

by rainedparade



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Decepticons Won, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, unnamed narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainedparade/pseuds/rainedparade
Summary: An ambitious young mech learns the dangers of depending on the veracity of hearsay.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	Starting Line Burn Out

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in a universe where the Decepticons triumph and Megatron takes Optimus as his consort while ruling Cybertron with an iron fist.

There are rumours that the Emperor will soon put out a search for a new consort.

This is the reason why you have been sent to the palace. This is the reason why you are on your hands and knees in the throne room, perched haphazardly on the penultimate step before the Lord of All Cybertron's throne, why your intake is stretched as wide as it will go and then some.

The Emperor may well be the greatest among the warbuilds, but he is still a mech at spark. And between the rumours of the Prime's negligence of his bondmate duties and the Emperor's penchant for the coarser forms of interface is well-known, is it any wonder that the Emperor's spike is fully depressurized, a torturously warm pulse between your denta?

Still, you are pleased with yourself and think this building charge is, at least in some small part, due to your own charms.

Optimus Prime would certainly never be found in this position. If the rumours are to be believed, the Emperor is generally dismissive towards his Consort and the title is in name alone. It makes sense, you think to yourself. Optimus was -- and still technically _is_ \-- a Prime. Primes are programmed to care little for carnal desires.

It is only when you cannot feel your jaw anymore that the Emperor moves. You cannot see him do so, but you feel a much too large hand take ahold of your left audial, stroking -- only stroking. The tenderness sends a jolt to your spark and your redouble your efforts in pleasure. You are rewarded with another pulse from the Emperor's spike, which at this point is shoved right up against the start of your upper vent.

You are pleasing him, you think, with a mind muddled with lust. You are pleasing Megatron, the Lord of All Cybertron. As you force your intake up and down that impossibly thick spike, you think of the hundred and one things you might ask of him if he would make you Lesser Consort. You would settle for the role of concubine (or even spikesleeve) if it would mean a favour or two.

The Prime could have -- should have, _must have_ \-- asked for all of these things and more. And yet his expression, in the few public appearances he has made since the bonding ceremony, betrays no hint of satisfaction. He is as grim as he had looked in the picts at the start of the war, as grim as he had looked when the Autobots conceded.

Who could possibly get it up to such a glitch?

 _You_ are better, you think. _You_ will be everything the Prime is not. Today is but a preview of your talents. You are certain that it is a matter of time before the Emperor takes you to his berth.

And then the hand on your audial stills, tightening for a moment -- you force yourself to bite back a wince, mindful of the spike still lodged in your vent -- and your own auditory network dimly registers a sound which must be the door to the throne room sliding back. You hear pedesteps crossing the threshold before the door returns to its former position, leaving the two of you in the room with an unknown third. And then the same tender motion is resumed.

"Prime," the Emperor greets, "To what do I owe the occasion?"

His spike gives a particularly vehement pulse then, enough that you can feel the surge of lust in the Emperor's EM field, and for a moment, you are terrified that the Consort will usurp you, that he will shove you to the side and take your place between the Emperor's thighs and, and, and --

He does not, but he crushes your hopes all the same.

The Prime's tone is unspeakably insolent for someone whose rank depends entirely on the Emperor's whims. He says: "I want to be at court this orn."

The Emperor sinks his claws into your audial and _twists_. Your cry of pain is muffled by his spike.

"Of course," the Lord of All Cybertron snarls. "Only when his precious Autobots come with a petition does _Consort_ Optimus consider it worth his time to attend court."

The Emperor draws his EM field uncharacteristically close, though the tension in the rest of his frame remains palpable. For a joyous moment, you think he will deny the Prime his request, insolent as it was. That it will be the start of your own ascendency.

Instead, he gives a long drawn out ex-vent before tapping presumably at the throne on his left. All you hear is a click of claws against steel.

"Very well," the Emperor growls, but he loses track of his EM field for a moment and because you are so close, practically a part of him right now, you feel it. It's joy. Pure, unbridled joy, and it has nothing to do with the state of your intake. "Come here then," he says, tapping again. "Take your place, for once,"

You concentrate whole-heartedly on bringing the Emperor to overload, hoping your own efforts will distract you from the Prime's imminent presence. But his pedesteps, while light, nonetheless send shivers through your frame.

This is Optimus Prime, you realise. This is the last of the Primes, the keeper of the Matrix. This is the Consort the Emperor chose, the one he had fought for thousands upon thousands of megavorns. And he would have him, or no one else.

You are certain, though you possess no proof, that it is the acknowledgement of this truth -- and the subsequent plunging of your own EM field -- that brings the Emperor to overload.

Your own valve is leaking by the end of it, but it is a lost cause. It has been since the beginning. The Emperor releases your mangled audial and pushes you back. You online your own optics to the sight of his spike sliding back.

You stare at him, crumpled discarded amusement that are you at the base of the dais, and wait for his dismissal.

Yet it is the Prime who breaks the silence.

"Go to the medbay," Optimus Prime says. You whirl your head to look at him looking at you. "Go to the medbay," he repeats. "Ask for Ratchet. He will fix your audial before the wires rust."

In that moment, you understand how his voice alone could compel a nation -- no, a planet -- to arms. And you hate him so. How can you compete? How can anyone compete? He looks at you with neither envy nor disgust nor pity, but with genuine compassion. It is as if you are his child and you have missed a step on the stairs.

This is the gaze of a Prime, you realise. This is the look of the chosen vessel of Primus.

Emperor Megatron gives a derisive snort. You whirl back to him to see him flexing his claws while looking at you with envy and disgust and pity.

"You are too soft, Prime," the Emperor complains, but you can hear the underlying threat, the one directed at you. _How dare you take his attention from me._

"The medbay," Optimus repeats, "Ratchet."

You are compelled to scramble to your pedes. Your limbs are as wobbly as a sparkling's.

"With your leave, Lord Emperor, Lord Consort," you mumble. The Emperor doesn't even look at you; his consort gives a grim nod.

As you make your way to the medbay, nursing your shattered ambitions all the while, you make a note to sock the mech that fed you the rumours in the first place. There is no chance for a second Consort. The Emperor will beget an heir from the Prime or he will have no heir at all.


End file.
